


When Mike Met Mycroft

by canolacrush



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cake, Character Study, Food Porn, Friendship, Gen, I will put all your obscure OTPs and BROTPs to shame, IS STANDING BESIDE YOU, No not actual porn but, STAMFORD'S YOUR MAN, SUDDENLY STAMFORD, WITH SWEET UNDERSTANDING, You will never find me Mem, and you thought Mystrade came outta nowhere haha, the BROTP to end all BROTPs, this actually isn't crackfic I swear (sorry), you can't write about cake without making it food porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canolacrush/pseuds/canolacrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mycroft abducts Mike Stamford for thank-you cake.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...Yes, that's the whole plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Mike Met Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> So this little fic was born out of two things:
> 
> 1.) The need for more Mike Stamford fic in the world. Because Mike Stamford is awesome and needs to be appreciated.
> 
> 2.) The realization that Mycroft literally has no friends. Whenever you see him on screen, he's alone. Even at Christmas, when Sherlock has a house full of guests, Mycroft is at some fireplace BY HIMSELF. People, Mycroft really needs a friend. He's the loneliest character in the whole show.
> 
> My solution? SUDDENLY STAMFORD! Enjoy!

On a Tuesday in March 2011, Mike Stamford was leaving his classroom with hardly a thought in the world.  He’d spent the day teaching a clump of bright-eyed med students about the variety of objects that could be stuffed up a child’s nasal cavities, and the only thing he was looking forward to was putting his feet up on the couch for a few hours when he got home.

 

There was a car with tinted windows waiting outside of Bart’s.  Mike Stamford walked right by it on his way toward the nearest Tube station.

 

Until he heard someone call his name.

 

He turned and saw a smartly dressed man standing just outside the car, staring directly at him.  “Hello?” Mike said.

 

“Dr. Stamford,” the man repeated, in a posh tone that Mike associated with people who went on holiday to the French Riviera.

 

“Yes, how can I help you?” Mike replied, taking a few steps toward the man.

 

For a moment, the man scrutinised Mike with a careful and all-encompassing gaze, one the likes of which Mike could only remember having seen once before—on his first meeting with Sherlock Holmes.  Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’d seen, the man lifted his chin a little and quirked his lips in the perfect imitation of a polite smile.

 

“Dr. Stamford, we have not had the pleasure of making one another’s acquaintance, yet I find myself in your debt.”  The man tapped the point of his umbrella against the pavement.  “And I find it distasteful to keep a deficit in my conscience.”

 

Mike eyed the man in utter bafflement.  “Oh?  ...What’d I do, then?”

 

The smile, for a second, ceased to be an imitation.  “Something quite important, I assure you.”  The man extended a hand.  “Mycroft Holmes.”

 

Mike grinned, recognising the name, and shook the man’s hand.  “Thought I’d seen that look before—I’ll take it you’re related to Sherlock.”

 

“That would be an accurate assessment.”

 

They stood awkwardly on the pavement for a moment.  Mike was waiting to hear what he’d done that was so wonderful.  Mycroft gestured to the open door of the car.  “I’ve made arrangements with a local establishment for the afternoon, if you’re so inclined.”

 

Mike glanced between Mycroft Holmes and the car, suddenly unsure if it was the wisest idea to just waltz into a stranger’s vehicle on the basis of a name alone.  But then again, he could—maybe just this once—take a leaf from the blog of John Watson and see where the unknown would lead him.  “All right,” he said, offering Mycroft a cheerful smile.  “Why not?”

 

One eerily quiet car ride later (in which they merely stared at each other and tried to make intelligent conversation about the weather), the car stopped outside a small bakery adjacent to a gated park.  Mike spotted a few swans swimming in the pond beyond the gate and a handful of formally dressed park-goers walking leisurely among the walkways.  He wondered if he’d been escorted into the pages of some sort of ‘Fancy Living’ magazine.

 

“Here we are,” Mycroft said, stepping out of the car and facing the patisserie.  “It is one of my favourite spots about town,” he confided, in a quiet tone that seemed to suggest that the location was meant to be kept secret.

 

Mike felt self-consciousness creep in as he took in more of the neighbourhood—they were undoubtedly in one of the richer parts of London, and Mike was merely in his teaching clothes.  “It does look nice,” he offered.

 

“There’s no need to be ill at ease, Doctor,” Mycroft stated, opening the door of the bakery and taking a step inside.  “As I stated before, I’ve arranged everything for the afternoon.”

 

With that, Mike shrugged off the last of his misgivings and stepped inside to see the most unbelievable patisserie he’d ever set eyes on.  On the far wall, an immense stained glass window flooded the interior in shades of pink, emerald, and cerulean light, depicting a scene from the tales of King Arthur: a stunning beauty of a woman entering through Camelot’s doors with a commanding raise of her arm, King Arthur staring in awe, and another handsome knight stretching his arms out to her.[1]  The surrounding walls were of a dark wood panelling, and glass sconces emitted a soft yellow light.  There were a few scattered tables with white cloth and fresh flowers on top of them.  Off to the right side of the room was a display glass of sample cakes adorned with fresh fruits and icing flowers for customers to admire.

 

“Wow,” Mike breathed, gracelessly removing his coat and draping it across the back of his chair before he noticed that Mycroft was hanging his own coat on a nearby wall-hanger.  He sheepishly replaced the jacket on the hook next to Mycroft’s and sat, staring in awe at this stranger across from him.  “You didn’t have to go through all this.  A coffee would’ve been just as good.”

 

Mycroft waved it off.  “It is no trouble at all.”

 

“But—”

 

A waiter materialised next to them, in the full regalia of a formal French server.  He stated something in French, to which Mycroft responded fluently.  The waiter handed Mycroft and Mike a menu, nodded, and said, “Gentlemen, I will return momentarily, after you’ve had a chance to make your selection.”

 

Mike glanced at the menu.  Everything was in French.  He didn’t dare look at the prices.  He waited until he was sure the waiter was out of earshot, then chuckled a bit and said, “’Fraid I’m not up on my French.”

 

Mycroft looked up from his menu.  “No matter, I will order for us.  Do you have any allergies I should be aware of?”

 

“No, not for anything food-related, thank god,” Mike said with a smile and a pat of his belly.

 

At that, Mycroft chuckled softly, and there was a certain quality in the sound of it—a wavering tone that seemed out of place with Mycroft’s speaking voice, as though it were a sound that was not well practiced.  Mike wondered what Mycroft’s belly laugh sounded like, if he had one.

 

“You are indeed fortunate,” Mycroft said, setting aside the menu.  He made a wry face.  “Shellfish tend to disagree with me.”

 

Mike shrugged.  “You’re not missing a lot.”

 

The waiter reappeared with the silence of a deer stepping cautiously through the woods.  “ _Qu’est-ce que vous voudrais, messieurs_ _?_ ”

 

“ _Millefeuille aux fraises des bois, **[2]** s’il vous plaît_ ,” Mycroft replied, handing him back the menus.

 

“ _Bien sûr_.”

 

As the waiter was stealthily placing two china cups of tea on the table, Mike folded his hands together in what he liked to think of as ‘business mode’ and said, “So, what’s all this about then?”

 

Mycroft took a sip of the tea before answering.  “You recall that approximately fourteen months ago, you introduced Dr. John Watson to Sherlock Holmes, in hopes of helping them afford a flatshare together in central London?”

 

Mike grinned and nodded.  “Yeah, of course!  John’s got quite the blog now since then.  I like to joke that I should get the credit for making him n’ Sherlock so famous.”  He ended his statement with a dry chortle, knowing it wasn’t all that funny, but wanting to lighten up the formality of the place in some way.

 

Mycroft twitched his lips up slightly, affecting amusement in a way that showed he did not understand the joke.  “Yes, that is precisely ‘what all this is about,’ as you put it.  You have introduced my broth—my _relation_ to a suitable companion, and he is a better man for it.”

 

Mike blinked, wondering what the mid-correction was about.  “Is there a reason you can’t say how you’re related?” he asked, to which his inner British sensibilities immediately scolded him for being nosy.  “I mean, I’d already assumed you were—you know.”

 

Mycroft sighed.  “In my profession, one can never be too careful about concealing one’s weaknesses.”

 

“What do you do, then?” Mike asked, inwardly deciding that his British sensibilities may as well take the day off since they weren’t working properly anyway.

 

“I occupy a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft said, and Mike recognised the look on his face from the same one patients used when they said, ‘Yes, Doctor, I have been exercising regularly’ even after gaining a stone or two since their last visit.  British Secret Intelligence it was, then—it didn’t surprise him, really, considering what he knew of Sherlock Holmes.

 

“You _did_ tell me you’re allergic to shellfish, though,” Mike pointed out.  “That counts as a weakness.”

 

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted.  “So it does.”

 

As Mike took a sip of his tea, he mused that Sherlock’s older brother looked mildly troubled at this accidental disclosure.  He offered a small, reassuring smile over the brim of his antique teacup.  “No worries, mate, what am I going to do with that, eh?  Stuff your post-box full of lobsters?”

 

The smile Mike received in turn was perhaps a little less forced than the others had been—it wasn’t so much in the mouth where it softened, but more around the eyes.  “No, I suppose not,” Mycroft admitted.  “My sources tell me you’re not the type of man to play practical jokes of that nature.”

 

“You never met me in uni,” Mike countered with a smirk.  “I had a few good ones back in the day.”  He was halfway to another sip of tea when he paused.  “What sources do you mean?”

 

Mycroft fished out a small notebook from his inner jacket pocket and flipped it open to a bookmarked page.  “According to at least ten different wedding profiles on theknot-dot-com, you’ve served as the best man in at least five ceremonies, a groomsman in three others, and you’ve given the bride away on two occasions.  Such a record indicates a very affable nature, in any case, but in each and every profile’s description of how the lucky couple has met, your name has risen to a certain prominence.  Such a distinction illuminates the character of a man who frequently goes out of his way to realise others’ best interests.”  He snapped the notebook shut and replaced it in his jacket pocket.

 

“Good lord,” Mike said, somewhat honoured yet embarrassed all at once.  “Did they really _all_ put that on their profiles?  I never read the things, to be honest, other than to find something in the registry to get them—but honestly, they were all just good mates of mine, and I happened to be in the right place at the right time to introduce them.”

 

“You belittle a useful talent, Dr. Stamford,” Mycroft said kindly.  “Knowing intuitively which people will work together to bring out the best in one another is a knack that few people possess.  You’ve given Sherlock a friend, and in doing so, you’ve cut my troubles by half.  And for that, I owe you my gratitude.”

 

Mike shrugged good-naturedly.  “The only talent I’ve got is for growing a spare tyre, Mr. Holmes.  But if you’re willing to buy me a fancy French cake because you think I’m a matchmaker, I’m not complaining.”

 

“Speaking of cake,” Mycroft said, looking over Mike’s right shoulder just as the eerily soundless waiter was placing a plate of something beautiful in front of Stamford.  The _millefeuille_ was composed of three thin sheets of puff pastry sandwiching together a thick, creamy filling packed with sliced strawberries.  A dusting of confectioner’s sugar topped off the ensemble.  Mike could practically smell the sweetness emanating off it.

 

Mike Stamford knew that in life, some foods were meant to be shovelled into one’s mouth and consumed with glutinous greed: crisps, chips, and basically anything that was once a potato and salted beyond recommended sodium intake.  He also knew that some foods were meant to be savoured, one bite at a time, to let the taste buds soak in something that they only experienced once in a blue moon: the sweet thing before him was undoubtedly one of those foods.

 

He sliced the fork down the corner of the rectangular dessert and scooped the piece into his mouth.  He closed his eyes.  All at once, he was flooded with the soft, flaky texture of the pastry, the butter-enhanced fluff of cream, the tartness of strawberry fruit, and the sugar crystals melting on the surface of his tongue—it was the very taste of a fairytale.  He chewed, swallowed.  When he opened his eyes again, Mike saw through his spectacled vision the backdrop of the stained glass window illuminating the head and shoulders of Mycroft Holmes, who was truly smiling for the first time all afternoon.

 

Just as Mike knew food, he also knew smiles, and he knew that the honest ones were only those that succeeded in making the bearer look a full decade younger.

 

He put down his fork and very seriously stated, “You, sir, have an excellent taste in cake.”

 

Mycroft’s smile stretched fractionally wider.  “It is my only vice,” he confessed, picking up his own fork and cutting into his slice.  “Technically, I am on a diet, but I think special circumstances will permit me this once.”

 

“I’ll drink to that,” Mike said, raising his teacup.  “Cheers.”

 

Mycroft paused, then very carefully tapped his own teacup against the other so that it didn’t make a sound.  “Felicitations.”  They drank.

 

The two of them peacefully made their way through approximately half of their _millefeuilles_ , taking their time to enjoy the quiet and the confection.  When Mike listened closely enough, he could hear a few birds outside chirping, and combined with the light filtering through the stained glass, he fancied that it almost felt like a Sunday morning rather than a Tuesday afternoon.  He sliced through another portion of his dessert and asked, “So what else do you do?”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he chewed and swallowed a piece of strawberry, then dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.  “What do you mean?” he asked in turn.

 

“Oh, you know, other than your job and finding the best cake in town.  What’re your hobbies?”

 

Mycroft affected a smile.  “I’m afraid my schedule doesn’t permit me much free time.”

 

“Ah, well, we’ve all been there,” Mike said with a laugh.  “There are days when I come home and can’t do anything but watch some telly before bed.”  He paused, noting that Mycroft’s facial expression was remaining carefully neutral.  He wondered why.  “Well, before the grind of life took over, what did you do?  Were you on any teams in uni?”

 

Mycroft grimaced.  “I’m not much of one for... _legwork_ ,” he replied.

 

Mike waited patiently for him to mention the hobbies he _did_ have.  When Mycroft instead went for another sip of tea, Mike started to become concerned.  “What about when you were a kid?” he asked.

 

“I’d much rather hear about _your_ hobbies, Doctor,” Mycroft replied smoothly.

 

Mike paused, then set his fork down and said, “Well...when I was a kid, I was crazy about kites.  Wanted to fly them everywhere, every shape and size.  Used to drive my mum insane, ‘cause I’d stay out until dark with ‘em—she kept thinking I’d get myself electrocuted in a storm one day.  Then when I got into uni, I guess I settled down a bit, studied medicine—I was on a rugby team for a few years.  Was absolute rubbish at it, but my mates and I always had fun with it.  But seriously—”  Mike paused and smiled encouragingly at Mycroft.  “—do you have mates or something you meet up with from time to time?”

 

Mycroft had been listening intently, but at the last question he sighed and replaced his cup in the saucer.  “I’m generally a very busy man, Doctor.  ...In my childhood, I was taught the doctrine that one should always strive to be as productive as possible, and I’ve always...oh, how should I put it?...loaded my plate with more than I can handle.”  His lips twitched upward as he gestured to his plate, which still had a fourth of dessert on it.  His eyes looked calm, but resigned.  “I’m afraid I never had the time.”

 

Mike could hear the words that the man across from him wasn’t saying—not only did this man not have any hobbies, but he also didn’t have any friends.  It broke his heart a little, thinking about what a life like that must be like.  In a way, looking at the elder Holmes brought up a picture of the Sherlock Mike knew before John had arrived on the scene: an isolated man working in the lab late into the night, silent as the grave, and perhaps just as lonely as one.  And, like that last time, Mike wanted to help.

 

“You made time for today,” Mike said gently.  “And I’ve been enjoying it, honestly.  Best cake I’ve ever had—and the company isn’t too bad, either.”  He grinned.

 

Mycroft smiled.  “That is true.  But I’ve also been terribly overdue in arranging this date—I should have thanked you at least twelve months ago.  But things...came up.”

 

“Yeah, well, better late than never, I always say.”  Mike chuckled.  “At least, that’s what I always tell my wife when I finally get around to fixing something around the house.”

 

“I suppose there is some validity in that belief,” Mycroft stated, gesturing for the waiter to bring the bill.

 

After Mycroft had paid for their food and they’d headed back outside, Mike turned to him and said, “You can call me Mike.”

 

“Hm?”  Mycroft opened the car door and gestured for Mike to go in first.

 

“You’ve been calling me ‘Doctor’ all afternoon.  You don’t need to be so formal with me—Mike’s just fine.”  Mike stood outside the car still, waiting for Mycroft to acknowledge the change Mike was trying to encourage.

 

Mycroft paused only for a moment, his hand resting on the door frame of the car, before saying, “Allow me to drive you home, Mike.”

 

Mike beamed and trundled into the car.  “We should really do this again sometime, mate.  You know, there’s this place I know on Piccadilly[3]—maybe you’ve been there before—but they have this great lemon cheesecake you ought to try.  We should go there.”

 

Mycroft got into the car after him and told the driver Mike’s address (and Mike decided it was better not to ask how Mycroft knew where he lived).  Once they had pulled away from the kerb and were driving past the tree-dappled park, Mycroft stated, “I will be looking forward to it.”

 

Two seconds later, he added, “Oh, and Doctor—Mike.  I ask that you please refrain from writing a blog about our acquaintanceship; one Holmes on the Internet is enough of a headache as it is.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. A scene from [“Lanval”](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lanval) (late 12th century CE) by Marie de France.
> 
> 2\. A _millefeuille des fraises_ looks like this: 
> 
> 3\. referencing The Criterion Restaurant, where Stamford met up with Watson originally
> 
>  
> 
> I JUST REALLY WANT THEM TO GO ON PICNIC LUNCHES TOGETHER. OR HAVE STAMFORD TEACH MYCROFT HOW TO FISH IN THE LAKE DISTRICT. OR SOMETHING. Their epic secret friendship has only just begun, I tell you!
> 
> Also, is this just me, or does Mike Stamford's Nothern/Scottish accent sound a lot stronger in the pilot than it does in the aired episode?
> 
> Better watch out, I might write Molly/Raz next. (Wow, I really need Season 3.)


End file.
